


Here, Let Me

by barthelme



Series: cleverer and cleverest; we've both been climbing everest [1]
Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-09
Updated: 2019-08-09
Packaged: 2020-08-13 09:33:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20172037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/barthelme/pseuds/barthelme
Summary: This is almost a decade old. I'm just moving everything over here from LJ. bartbarthelme on tumblr.





	Here, Let Me

**Author's Note:**

> This is almost a decade old. I'm just moving everything over here from LJ. bartbarthelme on tumblr.

It all starts with Cesc’s overactive bladder. His seat is empty as well as his water glass. When his breakfast comes, he’s been in the bathroom for at least four minutes. The waitress, a thin woman with brittle gray hair, mumbles, “Two eggs and toast,” and sets the plate down in front of Cesc’s empty chair. She moves around the table, warning Pique that his plate is hot and asking Xabi if he’d like ketchup (“No, thank you. Could I get another water?”).

When she places Iker’s plate in front of him, he doesn’t even notice that his eggs are fried, not scrambled. Instead, he’s watching Pique, knife in hand, reach over to Cesc’s plate and pick up a piece of his toast. Without saying a word, he slathers butter over the bread, perimeter to perimeter, then puts the bread back. He continues until all four pieces are covered. Then, Pique wipes his knife on his napkin and starts eating.

A few minutes later, Cesc returns. The butter has melted into his toast and he grins at it, then reaches over to ruffle Pique’s hair.

In response, Pique looks across the table at Iker, who hasn’t touched his food, and asks, “Salt?” around a mouthful of omelet. Iker nods and Pique reaches into the middle of the table, grabs the salt, and places it next to Iker’s plate.

Later, they’re drinking in Sergio’s room. Well, everyone else is drinking and Iker is watching. Watching as Cesc reaches for another beer and Pique grabs his bicep and pulls the smaller man closer to him. “Training tomorrow,” he says, and Cesc looks up, nods. He finishes his own beer, his fingers toying with Cesc’s sleeve.

When Cesc and Pique leave a few minutes later, Iker watches. Pique’s hand—have his hands always been that big?—is wrapped around Cesc’s bicep, again. It’s a soft grip, and if Cesc wanted to he could push Pique’s hand away. But he doesn’t.

The door closes behind them and Iker reaches for a beer.

They’re stretching in pairs. Iker’s with Xavi and when he looks over, he’s surprised to see Pique stretching out Puyol’s legs. They’re laughing and it’s easy; Pique’s eyes are squinting closed and he presses back on Puyol’s leg, the muscles languid.

When he looks over at Cesc, who is using Xabi for support as he stretches his hamstring, he can’t help notice the way he watches Pique, a blank expression washing over his face.

During training, Iker yells. He doesn’t yell at anyone in particular; he more or less curses loudly. It’s a mixture of things: David is offside, Sergio spends more time fixing his headband than defending, no one hustles. Cesc laughs when he strikes wide. “This is embarrassing!” Iker finally screams, kicking the post. The metal clangs and the sound vibrates through the air. “Can’t any of you—”

Everyone’s staring at him when Pique walks over, grips his bicep, and says, “Enough.” His hand is rough, fingers tight and, even if he wanted to, Iker wouldn’t be able to shake him. “Enough,” he repeats, squeezing a bit tighter before letting go and jogging away.

Iker looks out at his team. They are all staring at him, eyes wide and unblinking. He slaps his hands together, “Run it again,” he yells. This time, David slips the ball past Iker.

After practice, David practices penalties with Iker. When they get to the locker room, Iker expects everyone to be gone. Instead, he finds Cesc in his briefs, toweling off his hair. Pique’s across the room, tying his shoes, humming.

“Hey,” Iker says before opening his locker and grabbing a towel. Cesc looks over and nods. His eyes are wide, watery. His lips are puffy. He looks younger than the first time Iker met him. “You okay?”

Cesc nods.

Iker stares at him, as if somehow it will make him speak. He looks over his body. There’s a faint bruise on his arm. His kneecaps are red and scratched. “You sure?”

“I’m fine,” Cesc says, looking over Iker’s shoulder. Pique’s still humming.

A locker slams. “If there’s no hot water, I’m going to,” David’s voice trails off, his threat empty.

Iker gives Cesc one last glance before tugging his clothes off and heading for the showers.

David’s already lathering his hair with shampoo when Iker starts his own shower. The floor feels like sandpaper against his feet.

It isn’t until has started his shower that he realizes his shampoo is still in his locker. He looks over at David, who is lathering, rinsing, repeating. At his feet is a bottle of shampoo that just looks fancy. Iker uses Suave. “Damnit,” he mutters. He walks back towards the lockers, stopping when he hears the shuffle of feet and the rattle of the lockers. Peering into the room, he freezes.

“Now, are you going to laugh again when you miss a goal?” Pique has Cesc, still in his boxers, pressed against the lockers. He towers over his friend. One of his hands—Jesus Christ, it’s like they grew overnight—is gripping Cesc’s jaw, thumb pressing deep against the hollow of his cheek. Cesc shakes his head. “I couldn’t hear you.” Pique’s free hand rubs down Cesc’s side, lands on his hip.

“No.”

“No, what?”

“I won’t laugh when I miss a goal.”

Pique’s hand tightens on Cesc’s jaw and he moves his face closer, as if he’s examining Cesc, making sure he’s telling the truth. Then, his knuckles loosen and he pats Cesc’s cheek. “Good. You know I don’t like doing that.”

“I know.”

“How are your knees?” Pique still hasn’t backed away from Cesc, still hasn’t let him move.

Cesc lets his head fall back against the lockers. “Fine.” Pique grabs his jaw again, forcing Cesc to look at him. Iker wishes he could see the look Pique is giving Cesc, but he can only imagine it. “A bit sore,” Cesc says, changing his answer.

“Okay.” Pique straightens up. “Give me a kiss.” Cesc stands on his tiptoes, balancing himself with his hands on Pique’s waist. He kisses his cheek first, then Pique’s lips. “Come to my room tonight. I’ll make sure Puyi’s gone.”

Pique picks up his bag and heads for the door. Cesc slumps against the lockers, closes his eyes, exhales. His briefs do nothing to hide how hard he is.

Iker slips back into the showers. “Can I use some of your shampoo?”

Later, Iker lays in bed thinking about Pique leaning over Cesc. He thinks about Cesc on his knees in the shower, Pique’s hands gripping the sides of his face as he slides his cock between the boy’s lips. When Iker comes, he can almost hear Cesc gagging and Pique saying, “Open your eyes and look at me.” He can see Cesc’s mouth stretched wide, eyes watering. Cesc breathes heavily through his nose.

They lose and all Iker can do is clench and unclench his fists, jaw, eyelids. His muscles are literally quivering with anger, voice hoarse from yelling. His mouth tastes like bile.

The locker room is silent save for the slam of lockers and the shuffle of feet. At one point, Sergio—he’s usually the calm on, Iker thinks—grabs his locker door and kicks it, over and over and over, the door violently rattling on its hinge. Pique’s locker is next to his. He reaches over and presses the back of his fingers against Sergio’s cheek, rubs his thumb over Sergio’s eyebrow. Sergio—calm again—leans into the touch, eyes closed.

Iker looks at each of his teammates, unable to talk. He should say something, regroup, but he can’t. He won’t. Xabi keeps looking over at him, expectant.

Iker doesn’t bother showering. He pulls sweatpants and a fresh t-shirt over his body and goes to sit on the bus.

Iker skips dinner. While he showers, he downloads the game. Later, he watches it on his laptop, sound off. Someone calls, knocks on his door. He ignores whoever it is. He watches every goal. At one point, he realizes his fingernails are drawing blood from his palms.

It’s midnight when someone knocks on his door. In an attempt to fake sleep, he shuts his computer and puts it on the floor, rolls into a ball on his bed. Outside his room, there’s the shuffle of feet. The knock comes again.

“Casillas,” Pique says, voice stern, “Open up.”

Iker is wearing sweatpants and a wifebeater. When he opens the door, Pique puts his foot against the frame. “Where were you at dinner?”

Iker shakes his head, laughs, “Excuse me?”

Pique leans down. “You heard me. Where were you at dinner?”

“I’m going to bed, Gerard.” He goes to shut the door, but Pique’s foot is in the way. “Gerard, move. I’m going to—”

Pique pushes the door open with one hand. “You didn’t answer my question, Casillas. Where were you at dinner?” He doesn’t stop with the door; he pushes his way into the room. “I think, as captain, you would be the first to acknowledge that we win as a team and we lose as a team. So,” he shuts the door and pulls the deadbolt closed. “Where were you at dinner?”

Iker looks at Pique’s neck. He’s so much taller. “I was here. Watching the game.” His muscles feel tight, as if they’re being pulled every which way. “Trying to see what went wrong.”

“Okay.” Pique’s hand comes to Iker’s bicep, squeezing softly. He could brush him off if he wanted. He doesn’t. “Well, the game is over with. It’s done. Now get on the bed.” Iker doesn’t move. He looks up at Pique, eyes wide, mouth gaping. “Casillas, don’t make me repeat myself. Get on the fucking bed.”

“Gerard, I want to go to—”

Pique’s fingers move from Iker’s bicep to his jaw, thumb pressing in against the hollow of his cheek. “Do you want this or not?”

Iker’s mouth hurts from the pressure. “Yes.” His cock is hard.

Pique shoves his face away and resumes his grip on Iker’s arm. “Then get on the fucking bed, Captain.” There’s a mocking tone to his voice and Pique doesn’t give Iker a chance this time. He pushes, pulls, his actions rough, until they are at the bed. He turns Iker around, pressing his torso against the mattress, holding him by the back of his neck. “We waited for you,” Pique says as he grabs the waistband of Iker’s sweatpants. His thumb hooks under Iker’s briefs as well. “We waited to order.” He yanks down, and the cloth falls easily to Iker’s knees. His ass sticks in the air, bare, cold. He presses up, but Pique’s hand holds him down, presses his face into the quilt. “Xabi tried calling you. He came up to your room. Did you ignore Xabi?”

“I was—”

And then it happens—Pique’s hand slaps against Iker’s ass, hard. The sound seems to crash around the room before everything falls silent again. “Did you ignore Xabi?” It’s a simple question and, while he waits, Pique presses his fingers against Iker’s flesh, squeezing the reddening flesh.

“Yes,” Iker chokes out, his voice muffled by the bed.

“That was rude. You kept us waiting, wasted our time.” His hand comes down again, this time even harder. His knees buckle and his cock, hard, presses into the bed. Every muscle in his body hurts. It’s unwanted pressure. Iker’s mouth opens against the quilt and he bites down, the fabric tasting like dust. “What would you do if I showed up late to training, Casillas?” This time, he slaps the back of Iker’s thighs. “Would you make me run? Would you make me do push-ups? What would you make me do?” He slaps at the back of Iker’s thighs, harder and harder until Iker is squirming to get away.

“Stop, please, Gerard,” Iker sobs, reaching back to grab at anything, something, nothing.

“Would you call me out in front of everyone, Iker? You think it’s okay to yell at your teammates during training, berate them, and then not show up to dinner after we lose? You think it’s okay,” his hand comes to rest on the small of Iker’s back, “To ignore your teammates? Tell me, Casillas.”

Precum is leaking from Iker’s cock, dripping onto the bed. He doesn’t know if his cock has ever been this hard or if his body has ever been this sore. “It’s not okay,” he gasps. “I’m sorry.”

Suddenly, Pique’s gone. Iker slumps to the ground, knees scratching against the carpet. “You don’t need to apologize to me. You’re not my captain until the next call-up.”

His ass and thighs are sore, burning. His cheeks are damp.

“You might think about talking to Xabi in the morning.” There’s the unmistakable sound of a zipper, the clang of a belt buckle hitting the floor. “But first,” Pique says, reaching for Iker’s hair and pulling him back. “I think you need to loosen up.” Iker scrambles to turn around, follow the hard pull of Pique’s hand. When he pulls himself to his knees, he comes face to face with Pique’s groin. A sort of sadness hits him when he realizes that Pique’s not even close to being hard. Pique pulls his hair, pulls him closer, until Iker’s nose presses against the soft hill of Pique’s cock. He looks up, brows furrowed, and Pique knows. “You think I like having to do this? Playing babysitter? Reprimanding you? Cesc’s a kid; what’s your excuse?”

The last sentence burns against Iker’s ears. He closes his eyes and presses his tongue against Pique’s cock, dampening his boxers. Saliva is pooling in his mouth and he doesn’t know—well, he’s actually positive—that he’s ever wanted anything this much.

It doesn’t take long for him to pull Pique’s boxers down and sucks his soft cock into his mouth. He tastes clean, fresh. It isn’t long before he’s hard and heavy in Iker’s mouth. “You like this, Casillas? Like having a cock in your mouth?” Pique grins down at him, yanks his hair. There’s a sharp nod, followed by a wet slurp as Iker presses down on Pique’s cock, gagging when he hits the back of his throat.

It’s sloppy, wet. Drool and precum slip down Iker’s jaw, making his skin itch. He lets Pique fuck his mouth, slow, shallow thrusts interrupted by brief periods where Pique holds him down, pushes into his throat. Iker’s hands are folded behind his own back. Pique reaches down, massages Iker’s neck. “Fuck,” Pique whispers, pulling back. A line of spit connects his cock to Iker’s lips.

“You look good like this, Casillas.” He smirks before pushing his cock back into Iker’s open mouth. “I’m going to fuck you in a bit. And you will not touch yourself until I tell you. You will not come until I let you. And if I don’t want you to come at all, you won’t.”

Iker sucks, hard, trying to please Pique. He doesn’t want—can’t stand—the idea of Pique not wanting him to come. A moan escapes his throat and he pulls back briefly before ducking down and taking his balls between his lips, licking and sucking. “Please,” he murmurs against the inside of Pique’s thighs. “Please, Gerard.” His body is weak, muscles feeling bruised. When he sits back, his ass stings. His jaw is wet.

“What?”

Iker wants to touch himself, but he remembers Pique’s words. “I need you inside me. Please.”

“Then get on the bed, Casillas. On your knees. And take your fucking clothes off.” His pants are still around his ankles, wifebeater sticking to his chest. He scrambles, pulling everything off and climbing onto the bed in seconds, wanting, needing. When he’s situated on his hands and knees, he looks back, watching as Pique pulls his shirt over his head. Everything about him seems big: his hands, his thighs, his grin.

His cock.

“I know you saw me and Cesc. You’re not very sneaky, Casillas. I heard you, panting.” He reaches down, searching through his pants’ pockets until he pulls out a small container of lube. “Sometimes, he comes back and it’s like he thinks this is recess. Thinks he can just play around. Spread your ass for me, Casillas.”

Falling onto his face, cheek pressed against the mattress, Iker reaches back, spreading his cheeks with both hands. He edges his legs apart. “Sometimes, I think he acts up just to get a reaction out of me. You would die if you saw him, Casillas.” The cold dribble of lube slips between Iker’s cheeks, pools in his hole. “On his knees, gagging, crying. I’ll think it’s too much for him and I’ll try to stop and,” he presses two fingers, harsh, into Iker. He doesn’t give him time to think, time to adjust, just starts fucking him with his fingers. “And he’ll beg me for more. Beg me to slap him, fuck his mouth.” Iker shudders, his shoulder blades pulling together, tight. “That night, when he came to my room,” he adds another finger. It’s been so long, but Iker doesn’t care. He wants it all. “God, he was already stretched, ready for me. Did you think about us that night, Casillas?”

His fingers are gone and Iker ruts back, trying to find contact. He doesn’t have to wait long; He feels Pique’s cock against his hole, pressing tight, but not pushing. When Iker tries to press onto his cock, Pique backs up, laughing.

“I asked you a question, Captain.”

Iker lifts his head, barely, his arms falling to his sides. “I thought about you fucking his mouth, him choking on your cock.”

There’s a soft chuckle and Gerard slaps a slick hand against Iker’s ass. “Good.” And then he’s inside, just the tip, and Iker’s fingers clench the quilt. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

It’s hard, rough, and Iker wasn’t expecting anything else. When Pique pushes in, he feels like everything is too tight, too much. But, when he pulls back, his body feels tired, empty.

It hurts. Iker can feel the slick slide of Pique’s cock, but he still feels like he’s being ripped apart. His own cock is hard, but he knows he can’t touch himself. He spits on his fingers, reaches between his legs, rubs the saliva around his hole, Pique’s cock. Softly, his fingers hold Pique’s balls, and he rolls them between his fingers.

It’s been so long, but even then, it was never like this. It was more of a duty and never a desire. He’d never wanted anyone to fuck him like this, not until Pique. “Should’ve done this a long time ago,” Pique grunts, fucking harder, erratically. “Never thought I’d have to treat you like Cesc, though. Maybe you could help, next time.”

At the thought, Iker presses back against Pique, fucking himself on his cock. He thinks about Cesc draped over his legs, ass reddened by handprints. He pictures Pique fucking his mouth while he fucks Cesc’s ass. He thinks of Cesc crying, moaning, begging—“Oh shit, I’m—Gerard—I’m, fuck,” Iker freezes, willing himself not to come, but he feels the hot pool boiling in his belly.

“Don’t you dare,” Gerard whispers, reaching underneath Iker to grip the base of his cock, squeezing until it hurts. “I said you don’t come until I tell you, Casillas. Was it that hard to do? You like having a cock in your ass that much?”

He holds onto Iker’s cock through his thrusts, his thighs slapping against the back of Iker’s. When he’s sure Iker isn’t going to—can’t—come, Gerard let’s go and pulls out of Iker. “No, Gerard, I need—”

“Turn over.” Iker freezes as Gerard’s words. He wants him back inside, needs him back inside. But, reluctantly, he rolls onto his back arms above his head. His chest heaves, legs quiver. Gerard climbs over him, shuffling on his knees until he’s sitting on Iker’s chest. “Open your mouth.” Iker complies, closing his eyes and opening his mouth, sticking his tongue out.

Time passes and Iker isn’t sure how long it is, but then Gerard’s grabbing his hair, pulling his face up, and coming over his cheeks, the bridge of his nose, his eyelids, his lips. He licks, lapping at whatever liquid he can reach. “Fuck, Iker,” Gerard whispers, his voice suddenly soft. “You’re so—fuck. Don’t open your eyes.”

Lips press against Iker’s forehead, then Gerard is gone, feet shuffling across the room.

Iker lays there, still, his muscles loosening, relaxing. He feels soft and pliant, bendable.

“Okay, just a second.” A washcloth, hot and damp, is wiped across Iker’s eyelids, his cheeks, his nose. When Pique is sure his face is clean, he says, “Okay, you can open your eyes, Iker. Hold your legs up.” He bends over Iker, wiping away lube and precum, before tossing the washcloth aside. Then, Pique nestles between Iker’s legs, rests his head on his thigh. “You okay?” His hand circles around Iker’s cock, which is still hard. Iker nods and watches, amazed, as Pique licks the base of his cock, his balls, kisses his thigh.

“I’m fine,” Iker manages to choke.

“Good.” And then, Pique’s swallowing his cock, taking him into the back of his throat. He sucks, slurps, wet but not sloppy, jerking roughly on the base of Iker’s cock. It isn’t long before Iker’s hips are pushing off the mattress and he’s coming.

Later, after they’ve showered, Iker falls asleep against Pique’s chest, a strong arm wrapped around his shoulders, lips pressed against his scalp.


End file.
